


Valentine's Gay

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: Dethentines 2021 [5]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Dethentines 2021, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: In the time since he’d last seen Pickles, Charles had made a mental list of all the reasons he probably wouldn’t see or hear from Pickles ever again. For one thing, their only encounters had occurred only a few days apart, Christmas and then New Years; it was already February, and nothing.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Series: Dethentines 2021 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151390
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Valentine's Gay

**Author's Note:**

> **February 12 - In the Style of a Romance Novel / February 14 - "Will You Be My Valentine?"**  
> 
> 
> Kind of both, because this one took me some time to get done. Happy Palentine's Day, pals! ❤️

In the time since he’d last seen Pickles, Charles had made a mental list of all the reasons he probably wouldn’t see or hear from Pickles ever again. For one thing, their only encounters had occurred only a few days apart, Christmas and then New Years; it was already February, and nothing. But there were plenty of other clues, he told himself—angrily, ruthlessly, whenever the phone rang and he scrambled hopefully to answer it. 

Every morning he got up, shaved, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, all while staring at his own pale, boring reflection in the mirror. _Naht very rock’n roll_ , he imagined Pickles commenting. Then he put on his suit and tie and went to work for ten or twelve hours, came home, ate a microwaved meal or takeout dinner, and went to sleep. Rinse and repeat, except for on some weekends when he went out for coffee and then came back to the apartment to read law journals and catch up on any extra casework. 

Where did the former lead singer of Snakes N Barrels fit in? Nowhere, that’s where. They led completely antithetical lives, and they both knew it. 

There was always the possibility, too, that Pickles was dead. He’d mentioned heroin, and not whether he was a regular user or anything, but people died of overdose all the time. That, or hanging out in the wrong side of town, brushing shoulders with drug dealers and junkies and cops with heavy trigger fingers. Things happened all the time. If it wasn’t death there was always jail, hospitalization, or skipping town for greener pastures and to get out of owing certain people money. 

That was drastic, though. Pickles might never call him again for any number of other reasons. He could have already lost the number, he could be busy with business of his own . . . he could have already moved on to someone else. Charles prided himself on having no illusions; he examined all of these harsh possibilities every few days or so, usually after jumping for the phone. 

He was between those days late one night when, while he was cautiously attempting to heat up soup on the stove, the phone rang. Annoyed, he turned the burner down so the pot wouldn’t boil over and make a mess, and went to snatch it up. “This is Charles Offdensen” he said automatically, already craning back to look at the stove and getting wrapped up in the cord. 

“Chaaaaaaaarlieeeeeeeeee!”

Charles nearly dropped the phone—did, technically, but was able to jerk his arm in time and send it swinging around on its cord and back up where he caught it and pressed it to his ear again. “Ah. Pickles?"

He would’ve liked to sound less hesitant while saying that, even while being absolutely positive that was who was on the line, but it was what he had to work with. 

“Heeeey,” Pickles slurred excitedly. “Yeeah, it’s mee! It’s m—It’s mee!”

Well, that was. . . . Hm. 

“Okay,” Charles said slowly. “Ah. . . . How are you?”

The sound of Pickles laughing rolled out of the handset. “Dood, doodily-dood, I’m fiiine. Fine like wiiiiiine,” he sang, sending a shock of _Pickles from Snakes N Barrels is drunkenly calling to sing at me_ along Charles’ spine. It wasn’t any particular song, as far as he could tell, just the man goofing around. 

“That’s, ah, very nice.” There was a sound behind him, and Charles realized with a jolt that the pot was definitely boiling over and making a mess. He unwound himself from the cord and stretched back over to snap the burner off. “Why? Ah, are you calling?”

“I. . . .'' For the first time in the call, Pickles sounded uncertain. “I kiiinda need a ride.”

Charles bit his lip. He automatically wanted to help, which was a bad sign; as a lawyer, his first instinct should have been (and usually was) to ask about billable hours first. “Where are you?”

The answer, to his lack of surprise, was a bar about a forty-five minute drive away. Charles eyed his messy pot still half full of steaming soup, but took the address down on a post-it note anyway. He could pour it into a thermos for the drive. 

* * *

It was almost one thirty by the time Charles pulled up to the bar and saw Pickles kicking a can around in the parking lot. Unlike the last time he’d seen him, Pickles was wearing jeans that were more denim than hole and a black bomber jacket over his t-shirt, in acknowledgement of the cold weather. No hat, just another of his trademark blue bandanas, but not much color besides that. When he caught sight of Charles in the car he waved enthusiastically and bounded over, nearly slipping in icy puddles several times. 

“Heeey man,” Pickles said, plunking into the passenger seat and slamming the car door behind him. He brought with him an invisible tide of smells—booze, cigarette smoke, sweat, and just a hint of hairspray. It wasn’t overwhelming, exactly, but Charles felt something leap in his chest and had to fight the urge to close his eyes for a moment. “Thanks fer comin’, I really. . . . I owe ya one.”

“Of course,” Charles replied. He bit down pointedly on all the questions he wanted to ask, letting only the most practical one slip out. “So, ah . . . where to?”

Pickles blinked at him in surprise. “Yer place, right?”

Well, that answered some of what he was wondering. Charles nodded, and reached over to help Pickles get his seatbelt buckled before putting the car in gear. He was hyper aware of Pickles on his right, putting his boots up on the dash— _have to clean that later_ —and flopping an arm across the middle console organizer, fingers dangling tantalizingly close to Charles’ leg. 

“Sooooo,” Pickles said after a while. He’d made no attempt to fiddle with the radio to fill the silence, and had obviously been waiting for _something_ , but Charles could not for the life of him think of anything to say. “How’s yer holiday going?”

Now it was Charles’ turn to look at him in surprise, albeit in the briefest of glances because he still needed to pay attention to the road; he was just pulling back onto the freeway to head home. “Holiday?”

“Yeah, it’s fab . . . febblary.” When this didn’t seem to get any reaction, Pickles added, “It’s the fourteenth. It’s _Valentine’s Day_.” 

Charles’ first instinct was to say that no, it was the thirteenth, because after midnight or not he usually didn’t consider it the next day until either he’d gone to sleep or the sun came up, whichever happened first. But what was making his face heat up was more the fact that Valentine’s Day was so far from being anywhere on his radar that he hadn’t even thought of it until Pickles had actually named it. “. . . Oh. It’s, ah, so far mostly been . . . this.”

“Y’don’t gotta date?” Pickles slurred, slumping down further in his seat and, intentionally or otherwise, sending his hand bumping into Charles’ thigh. 

“Ah, no. I don’t.”

It was definitely intentional. Pickles was clumsily massaging his thigh now, moving steadily up towards cupping him through his trousers, which was . . . highly distracting. 

“Pickles,” Charles warned. “Not while I’m driving.”

The massaging abruptly stopped. “Oh . . . sahrry, Charlie.” Suddenly Pickles wasn’t looking at him anymore, rolling heavily in his seat to face the door window. 

Charles shifted uneasily in the driver’s seat, nonplussed by the sudden change when all he’d meant was to point out the dangers of road head and suggest waiting until they got to the apartment, or at least until he could pull over. 

“. . . There’s, ah, still some hot soup in the thermos, if you’re hungry,” he tried, nodding towards the cupholder. 

Pickles grunted in acknowledgement, but didn’t turn around. 

A silence descended that gradually formed ice crystals. Charles didn’t know how to break it, so he just . . . drove. 

  
  


* * *

About half an hour later, Charles pulled the car into his cramped garage, turned the engine off, hit the button to close the garage door, and glanced over at Pickles. The man was still more or less facing the window, but he hadn’t said anything for half an hour and might have passed out. 

Only one way to know for sure. 

He reached over and nudged one black-clad shoulder. “Ah, Pickles? We’re here.” 

To his surprise, Pickles’ shoulder quivered under his touch, and he said thickly, “Yeah. Okie. I’ll get up . . . in a second. . . .”

 _Is he. . . ?_ Charles tugged gently, pulling him to where he could see, and yes, Pickles was crying. Must have been for a while, too, because there were tears and snot running down his face. It was only by the grace of not having all the makeup of his performance days that he didn’t have black streaks of mascara halfway down his neck. “What’s wrong?”

“Nuthin’.” Pickles balled his jacket sleeve around one hand and scrubbed it hard across his face. 

“Is it, ah, something I said? Because I’m not very good at, ah. At people. I’m sorry if I. . . .” Charles looked into his red-rimmed eyes and trailed off as the sadness in them hit him like a freight train. He wasn’t good at empathy, exactly, but Pickles looked _miserable_. 

Eye contact seemed to make the dam burst. Pickles had obviously been struggling to reel it in, but there were fresh tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and he all but wailed, “The fuck am I doing with my life, dood?! I’m a fuckin’ washed up has-been! Nobody recognizes me anymore, nobody plays Snakes N Barrels no more, and I’m never gonna f-find another band, or if I do it’s not gonna be the kinda band I _want_ , it won’t be _h-heavy_ enough, because I don’t have the right voice fer what people _want_ now! And I’m never going to, I jest ain’t got the range.” [1] A humorless grin twisted his damp features, baring teeth. “Y’know what they call it? You know what they fucking call it now?” He grabbed fistfulls of his vivid red hair and pulled it down over his face, like he was trying to rip it out, or cry into it, or somehow disappear. “Fucking _hair metal_. People call us fuckin’ fairies ‘cause of all the hair spray and make up and the goddamn clothes, and t-that’s _it._ That’s my fuckin’ legacy, Charlie, and the checks ain’t never gonna pay rent because no one—no one. . . .”

Charles didn’t have much of a grasp on comforting people, but he’d seen others do it. He tugged Pickles over the middle console into a tight hug, letting him press his wet face against his neck and grab handfuls of the polo Charles was wearing instead of yanking out his own hair. 

“But you like the music, right?” Pickles hiccuped into his neck. “Charlie? _You_ like me, right?”

“Of course I do,” Charles replied instantly, because dammit, he automatically wanted to help, even as he simultaneously cringed inwardly as he remembered how many times he’d thought of him as _Pickles from Snakes N Barrels_. Clearly, that was a problem that Pickles had fallen prey to—of feeling inseparable from his fame, and feeling increasingly worthless as that diminished with time. 

“You’d still wanna fuck me, right?” Using his grip to push back a little, Pickles pulled back with a wild, desperate look in his eyes. “If I was nobody, you’d still want me, right? I don’t, I d-don’t belong in a fuckin’ garbage can?”

There was a lot resting on whatever he said next, Charles knew. It was like standing up in court, only more like one of those dramatic as hell TV shows where they always showed trials as much more dramatic than they actually were. One of those closing arguments that needed to somehow be more powerful than all the evidence, that _resonated_ , that took all the problems and sorted them out and tied them all up in a neat little bow. 

. . . Shit, he was really in deep for this guy, wasn’t he? Even though Pickles was so drunk he was drooling a little and had gotten snot all over his polo and would probably throw up sometime in the near future. Even though, after the last time Pickles had been at his apartment, Charles had needed to buy a new trash can and wipe stray cocaine dust off the toilet tank lid in his bathroom. Even though it hadn’t even been two months since they’d first met. And it wasn’t just the sex—although the sex was fucking spectactular, Pickles had more than just his eyebrows pierced and he knew how to do things that Charles had never even thought about. 

There was something very real about the way Pickles seemed so relaxed around him, and made Charles feel comfortable in return when most people always put him at least slightly on edge. They’d been on the same wavelength ever since Pickles had spotted him in that movie theater and winked at him, something that had never happened to Charles before, and now the vulnerability Pickles was showing made him certain that he hadn’t merely imagined it. 

“I’d, ah, want to be with you even if I couldn’t fuck you,” Charles said nervously. He’d never done this before. “Or if you’d never been famous. And, ah. Even if garbage cans had executive suites, you’d still be too good for them.”

There was a pause, and then that got a watery laugh. “Good poetry there, chief,” Pickles sniffled, managing to sound gently teasing. “Don’t. . . . Don’t quit yer day job. Fuck—” He fell forward and wiped his eyes clumsily on Charles’ shoulder again, still hiccuping out an occasional chuckle as misery wrestled with amusement. 

Charles, who managed to feel rather encouraged despite the light mockery, rubbed theoretically soothing circles on his back. “Come inside, it’s more comfortable. I’ll make you some, ah, coffee or something.” _I’ll take care of you_ , he didn’t add, because there were some lines he knew not to cross into unforgivable sappiness. But Pickles had taken care of him when he’d been suffering the worst hangover of his life, and for better or worse Charles was willing to do the same. Even though it was Wednesday and he would have to call out of work in a few hours to do it. 

He usually never took any vacation time, so he had plenty of days saved up. 

“Think I’m too fucked up fer foolin’ around,” Pickles admitted in a mumble. “I shoulda, shoulda just called a cab, not bothered y—”

“It’s fine,” Charles interrupted firmly. “I, ah, just said that, didn’t I? That I’d want to be with you even if I couldn’t fuck you?”

Raising his head, Pickles gave him a bleary look and pouted. “Don’t gotta get all lawyer-y on me about it, chief. Usin’ . . . words and shit. . . .” His head dropped forward again and he groaned. “Uggggh I don’t feel so good. . . .”

Charles managed to unbuckle and haul a mostly limp Pickles over the console and out the driver’s side door with him before the vomit came, splattering on the garage floor just outside the threshold. At least it missed his shoes, mostly. Sort of. Well, he had others. It was fine. 

* * *

Pickles had gotten used to waking up not knowing where he was a long time ago, first because of running away from home and then again because of all the drugs and alcohol he was then free to consume whenever he wanted. He rolled over, stretching luxuriously and with drowsy slowness beneath the soft, clean sheets. 

That fact alone ruled out any of the places he’d crashed lately, that was for sure. (It really was a good thing that all of his residuals checks went to a PO box. That had been a good idea. Whose idea had that been?) 

Not wanting to open his eyes, he flopped face-down on the pillow and inhaled deeply. Again, they smelled clean and fresh, faintly of laundry detergent and expensive men’s shampoo. And . . . he knew that smell. Where did he know that smell from? 

Someone sat on the edge of the bed next to him and Pickles arched instinctively towards the dip in the mattress with a yawn and a vague smile. Wherever this was, he felt as relaxed as a cat in sunlight. 

“Did you, ah, sleep alright?”

 _Charles_ , Pickles thought instantly. _That’s_ where he knew that smell from. A genuine grin started to form on his face as he opened his eyes and blinked sleepy up at the man. “I guess I did, don’t really remember, heh. How ‘bout you?”

The smile Charles gave him was small and tired, but it reached his eyes at least. “To be honest, I didn’t get much sleep. But I called out of work for the rest of the week and I’m no stranger to all-nighters, so, ah, it’s not really a problem. How much of last night do you remember?” 

“Er. . . .” Pickles concentrated. 

He remembered being at a bar, and one of his old songs had started to roll out of the sound system. That had been nice. Feeling in a generous mood, he’d been about to order a round of drinks for the whole bar . . . except then someone had booed and yelled at the bartender to put something else on. Which hadn’t happened, it was all pre-recorded, but the same douche had kept saying other shit throughout the song. Worse shit. And Pickles had drawn in on himself, expecting someone to point him out at any moment and that probably leading to getting caught in the middle of a bar fight . . . except no one had. 

Somehow _that_ had fucked him up more than anything else. 

“Had kind of a fucked up night,” he ventured. “I kinda remember wanting ta call you though? ‘Cause Valentine’s day is coming up and I figured, y’know . . . you’re my holiday guy. . . .”

“I, ah, suppose I am.” Charles nudged a cold glass into his hand that Pickles hadn’t even registered before, so he took it and scrunched up into a half-sitting position against the pillows. “Today is Valentine’s Day, by the way.”

Pickles took a sip without looking at the glass, expecting water. Not his first choice, but it would at least wash his mouth of the taste like something had crawled in there and died. He blinked in surprise at the first sip. “Is this a gin fizz?” [2]

Charles nodded. “I went heavy on the soda water, for hydration. But, ah, yes. It is.”

Gin wasn’t exactly his first choice, but hair of the dog was hair of the dog and he knew from experience that it wasn’t something Charles ever thought about for himself. “Dood, you’re the fuckin’ _best_.” 

Hangovers were another thing that Pickles had gotten used to waking up to and hardly took notice of anymore, but he definitely had one. He took a gulp of his drink, so big that some of it splashed down his chin and he had to wipe at it with the back of his hand. Charles must have undressed him at some point before putting him to bed, because he was dressed only in his t-shirt and underwear. 

“. . . Wait, did you say it’s Valentine’s Day already?”

“I did.” Charles seemed to be watching him closely, like he was waiting to decide something. Such a lawyer thing to do, waiting for all the evidence instead of just leaping all in right away. Always thinking. But what Pickles liked so much about the guy was that he could be persuaded to stop thinking—wanted to be persuaded, even, as though he couldn’t make the jump to rash and impulsive without a little push, and then once he got it went forward with few questions asked. “Did you, ah, have anything in particular in mind?”

“Well, uh,” Pickles said sheepishly, reaching up to scratch at the rats nest that was his hair. “Brought chocolates, I guess? Maybe steal some roses from that house down the street? You know, that one with all those big bushes, they’d never miss ‘em.”

A faint look of amusement passed over Charles’ face. “I know the one you mean. Those are prize-winning roses, you know, and would definitely be missed. But, ah, it’s nice to know you have good taste. Very flattering.”

He still looked like he was waiting on something though, and Pickles was starting to sweat a little trying to figure out what. What else had happened last night (which he was starting to sense hadn’t necessarily been the same night that douche had gone off about Snakes N Barrels)? A few lost days were nothing; sometimes Pickles felt as though he barely remembered most of the shows he’d played in his heyday, as though someone else, some cooler, swaver guy had stepped in for him. The feeling tended to go away as soon as he was loaded again, anyway. 

It wouldn’t with this. 

“So, er,” Pickles hazarded, “thanks fer pickin’ me up last night. Hope it wasn’t too far outta yer way.”

“Not at all,” Charles replied promptly, too smooth for Pickles to tell if it was the lie he kind of hoped it was—not to have been an inconvenience, exactly, but someone this man _wanted_ to go out of his way for. Scrambling for his approval like a dog begging for treats, or a god begging for prayers. . . .

Okay, maybe he was still a tiny bit drunk. He’d enjoyed some amount of fame in the 80s, but was smart enough to know that he’d never quite hit true god status. 

“So, d’you . . . take time off a lot?” he asked, feeling pretty confident about what the answer would be but wanting to hear it out loud. 

“Hardly ever,” Charles confirmed. 

That seemed promising. Pickles knocked the rest of his drink back and handed the glass over again, making sure their fingers touched in the transfer. 

“Didja take it off that time fer little ol’ me?” He flashed his best seductive smirk, the one calculated to remind those who had the privilege of seeing it just how talented he was in all sorts of departments, leaning closer. It looked as though Charles hadn’t shaved for the day, and Pickles again felt cat-like with the sudden urge to rub against his cheek just to feel the grounding scratch of the light stubble. And possibly purr. 

Instead of replying, Charles surprised him by leaning in as well and kissing him. Not hard and fast the way Pickles tried to meet the kiss, the way he usually did, but slow and savoring. In spite of himself, Pickles stopped trying to nip and just sank into it, eyes fluttering closed until he felt like he was floating and Charles was his only tether to the earth. 

It was a kiss that promised to catch him if (when) he came crashing back down. Had anyone ever kissed him like that before? If so, it hadn’t happened while he’d been sober enough to notice. Tony certainly hadn’t, that was for sure, hadn’t had the capacity for anything that deep through the haze of heroin and fame and other shit, no matter what fevered promises he’d choked out in confidence. 

The events from last night were still a hazy watercolor, but Pickles could almost make out the shape of the car ride and of worrying that Charles didn’t really want him—like Tony hadn’t, like his parents hadn’t, like that douche in the metal bar hadn’t. Worrying that all he had to offer anymore was sex, and being so sure that if he could at least make the guy’s toes curl then that would at least be _something_. . . .

He made an embarrassing sound when the kiss ended, a stupid little whine for more, and Charles responded by coming back immediately with more of the same. Pickles wound both arms around his neck and didn’t push this time, just let himself drift and _want_. 

“Wow,” he breathed when the second kiss was over. “Charlie. . . . If yer angling to be more than just my holiday guy. . . .”

There was a pause. “If I were?” Charles prompted quietly after a moment. 

_Even if garbage cans had executive suites, you’d still be too good for them._

Pickles wasn’t sure if he was remembering that right. This . . . _thing_ between them was already longer than any relationship he’d ever had, not counting the even hazier on-again-off-again thing with Snakes N Barrels’ bassist. He didn’t want to fuck up such a good thing—someone who didn’t judge or make even worse decisions than his own, and had clean sheets, and took care of himself often enough to smell of shampoo, and to top it off had already proven himself _amazing_ in the sack. (Talk about toes curling, _fuck._ Pickles shivered a little just thinking about it.) 

What was the best way to not fuck this up?

Maybe, he reasoned, it was to do the opposite of what he’d always done for once. 

“How about,” he said slowly, nervously (he’d never done this before), “I get ya that box of chocolates and we jest, I dunno . . . hang out?”

Charles, still so close that Pickles could feel his breath against his lips, considered. “You know the, ah, chocolate will all be on sale for much less tomorrow.”

In spite of himself, Pickles rolled his eyes. “Jeez, then I’ll get ya more tomorrow, too. Yes’r no, dood?”

Charles kissed him again. Pickles could feel him smiling into it, and couldn’t help doing the same. 

“I, ah, washed your clothes. They’re folded on the edge of the bed. Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll go, ah, go get my keys? To drive you to the store.”

“Sounds good, chief,” Pickles murmured, and gleefully limited himself to deepening the kiss just a little before letting Charles, in all his dumb, smart person, polo shirted glory, go get his car keys. 

It was going to be a good day.

* * *

1Inspiration for this outburst courtesy of my buddy Ash, and you can [read more here](https://insomniac-pens.tumblr.com/post/639536665939050496/pickles-had-to-give-up-at-least-a-partial-part-of). This will probably crop up as a theme in future fics because I have... many feelings. Return to text

2If this was a modern-day fic, it would've been a hard seltzer instead of a [Gin Fizz](https://www.thespruceeats.com/gin-fizz-recipe-759670), but the latter does also have egg whites for protein. Charles really did look at Pickles and think, this man needs both Hydration and Nutrients. Return to text


End file.
